Tony Stark needs new coping mechanisms
by arabellagaleotti
Summary: Tony reacts to Peter's death after infinity war. Hint: he does it with alcohol. Two-Shot, post Infinity War, Tony and Peter feels.
1. Chapter 1

Oh fuck.

 _I don't want to go._

He's gone.

 _Mr. Stark._

Gone.

 _I'm sorry._

Tony faces the kitchen. Peter's homework is still sprawled across the table, notes scrawled in chicken-scratch writing in the margins.

Everything was fine for a few trembling seconds.

And then it wasn't.

I _crumple,_ collapsing into myself like an imploding star. Nothing's okay. He's gone. How can the world exist without Peter Parker? It's not possible. But yet, the world hasn't stopped spinning, gravity hasn't erased itself, the sun still shines. For one of the first times in my life, I don't understand.

That's a new one.

I stumble to my feet, using the counter to help myself up. It takes only a few steps to reach the liquor cabinet, but it feels like eternity.

The alcohol - I'm not sure what I grabbed - burns like hellfire as it goes down.

I collapse on the wall, gripping what I can now see is vodka in my hands like salvation.

It's probably not salvation.

No, I would say definitely not.

I'll still try.

I tip back my head once again, the vodka catching the light like bottled moonlight.

 _Mr. Stark?_

I take another drink.

 _I don't wanna go, Mr. Stark._

The voice is quieter.

I don't know how long I stayed there. Maybe too long. I know the previously-full bottle is nearing low when a voice interrupts.

"So you haven't changed." Cap. He's standing there, the vision of righteousness and American goodness. He has a beard now. He looks different.

I laugh, head resting on the wall and hooded eyes, "oh I think you'll find that I have, Capiscle."

"Hello, Tony," Natasha smiles faintly from behind Steve, her eyes still wary.

My lips tug back - although I'm not sure it could be considered a smile, "Hi Nat. You changed your hair, I like it."

She nods. "Yeah." Her eyes see the homework, and I take another swig of the liquid fire in my hand, although it doesn't burn as much now.

Even better.

"Whose are these," she asks carefully, eyes glued to the offending calculus.

"Peter's," I say, voice emotionless.

"Who is Peter?"

"Doesn't matter now," I dismiss, putting down the vodka and getting up on unsteady feet. I nearly fall, but grab onto the granite in time.

"I'm...ah, gonna go." I mumble, snatching up the bottle of vodka again. Cap moves, as if to stop me, but doesn't do anything in the end. Typical. "You can stay here." I offer, staggering out of the kitchen.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Text

I stumble down the hallway, my vision going on a tilt-a-whirl and clutching another bottle in my hand.

Peter's room.

I'm going to Peter's rom. I'm not sure when I decided on this, but apparently I did.

This is the drunkest I've been since 2008. Good times - not that I really remember them, to be fair.

I come to a stop at Peter's door. There's the scratch across the paint, from when he broke that vase (don't even get me started on that). The doorknob is nearly hanging off - super-strength has it's disadvantages.

This is a physical manifestation of him. This is Peter, his essence.

Here goes.

I open the door, nearly falling inside when I lean too far out.

I can't go inside, I can't touch anything. This is scared space.

Everything's the way he left it: A Spider-man duvet (an ironic present from yours-truly.) Lego sets on the shelf above his bed, one half-finished from when his friend Ned came over. A cluttered desk stuffed with forgotten homework and half-finished mechanical projects. An extra suit is strewn out on the floor, a pair of trashed web-slingers next to it.

"Whatcha doing?" the voice comes from behind me, startling me out of my reprieve.

I nearly fall, closing the door behind me quickly .

"No... nothing, Natasha," I slur, holding onto the door to keep myself ready.

"Doesn't look like nothing?" It's a question.

"Not anymore." I say weakly .

She tilts her head. "Who's Peter, Tony?"

"Who was Peter." I correct.

A muscle jumps in her jaw, 'answer the question."

"Peter was a kid ," my voice breaks and I hate myself for it, "he was just a kid from Queens."

"Can you tell me more?" Natasha asks respectfully , understanding in some part of her.

I slide down Peter's door, coming to a rest on the carpet, "I don't know."

"Try." Natasha sits down next to me.

"He was...he liked Fruit Loops," I start with the small stuff. It's easier that way. "He put the milk in first, like the weirdo he was," I smile faintly , remembering him. It hurts my face, like I haven't smiled in a thousand years. "And Star Wars, and lego and science. He liked science. Oh, and he kinda had a crush on this girl - MJ. She called him loser, but I think she liked him back, at least a little. He brought his friend over once, this kid Ned - an absolutely genius hacker. He won his school's robotics competition, and we all went out for ice-cream after. Me, Happy, Peter, his Aunt May, MJ and Pepper. We all ate ice-cream out of his trophy, which in retrospect wasn't a good idea 'cause we all got lead poisoning after," I laugh weakly.

I go on, talking about everything and everything - that time he blew up the lab ( really don't get me started), meeting Rhodey, tinkingering in the lab together, visiting upstate, training, his grades, school, his parents, Aunt May.

"He sounds like a good kid." Natasha says finally. When I've somehow exhausted everything I can say.

I swallow back a sob, admitting, "I miss him."

"Yeah."

"Yeah," I nod, eyes misty and looking at something far away.

Natasha straightens, "What you gonna do?"

"What?" I ask, startled by this sudden question.

"What, are, you, gonna, do," she breaths, eyes locking with mine, "are you gonna sit here, drunk as day, or are you gonna avenge him? Because I think Peter sounds like the kind of person who deserves to be avenged ."

I put down the bottle in my hand. "Okay."

"Okay." Natasha echoes, a grin on her face.


	3. Chapter 3

"I'm going to kill you," I snarl, armour broken around me. I'm bleeding and hurt, but _I don't care because Peter is dead and Peter didn't deserve it and it's all my fault and oh-_

The titian laughs, breaking me out of my trance. He is barely bleeding. "Why do you still fight? Would it not be easier to stop, it has happened, the universe is balanced, you cannot fix things."

"It would not be easier," I pant, something stabbing into my ribs. "It would be _so much harder,_ " my voice breaks and I don't deny it, just let a tear trace from my eye, down the side of my cheek. It is not the first tear have shed, but it just might be the last.

He cocks his head, "and how would that be?"

I look up, eyes locking with his, "because you killed him, and it's on me."

"You mean that pitiful spider?" He says, some shadow of a smile on his face. "Weak," he spits, eyes relishing my reaction.

"You are going to regret that," I pledge, launching myself forward.

After the battle, worn and tired, with scraps and scratches and possible broken bones, we crowd in the quinjet. All of us. Thanos is dead. It's the first time we've been inside - all together - in god knows how long.

It's a chattering, buzzing hum of talk, catching up. Everything hurts, right down to my bones, to my soul. That is a different kind of hurt, but it's just as deep, and worse.

"Hey, Tony, celebratory drink?" Steve asks, turning towards me with a bottle of champagne.

I take a long time to answer, and when I do my eyes flick to Natasha, "No, no, I'm good."

Steve shrugs, turning away. They think nothing of it, except from Nat, who smiles jaw-breakingly wide and says nothing. Steve fires the champagne cork with a whoop, and the attention turns to him pouring the foaming drink into glasses.

I feel awkward, eyes dart to me, they know who I am.

 _Who I'm meant to be._

Nevertheless I stay. This is hardly the most awkward I've been.

They pull the chairs in a circle, with people talking, about relapse and triumphs and people clap. Like they care.

Maybe they do.

When it's my turn, I inhale, pulling fresh air into my lungs. "My name is Tony Stark, and I am an alcoholic."

People look at me, no doubt think a thousand different things, but I find I don't really care.

I get asked if I want to talk. I find I do.

"As you know, I've had quite a...illustrious past with alcohol," that earns me a few uneasy laughs, "starting from my first drink at 14. I was fresh to MIT, the kid genius, the millionaire - at that point, and the odd one out, so I drank, to fit in, I suppose. I found I liked it, dulled everything down. I understand why my father drank so much, why mother took some pills and downed them with a cocktail instead of say anything. I don't blame them. But I think that's why I took to drinking so easily, so I would have something in common, so father would be proud of me." I suck in a breath, snapping back to attention, "anyway, I've been sober for 2 months," I conclude quickly, sitting back down hastily. Something about it, getting to share, not being judged, it...it's nice. I find myself sharing things with people I hardly know that I've never told my best friend - at least not told sober.

Maybe this is good.

Maybe I'll be okay.

Maybe I'll heal.

Maybe Natasha was right.


End file.
